In the Flat Feld
by CostanzaGrrl1996
Summary: Jerry's good friend Peter Murphy is visiting from England, but Kramer and his duck won't get out of the apartment! When they're finally convinced to leave, Peter shows up to reveal a secret that's darker than his music. (Slash)


**In the Flat Feld, by CostanzaGrrl1996**

The tall man stood in the living room wearing nothing but his underwear and a pair of dress shoes. At his side, a small mallard with a gloriously green head looked around the room, probably wondering why he wasn't at his usual pond. The tall man extended his arms outward; Palms down, right, then left, one after the other.

The duck stood motionless. The man rotated his palms upwards, before touching his shoulders and finally the back of his neck. He turned around to wiggle his tail-feathers; His hips gyrated softly as the momentum of his body caused his wild hair to wiggle, like a hairy Leaning Tower of Pizza. The duck did not shake his tail-feathers, instead opting to clean himself.

"Hey, Macarena!" the man shouted jovially, before turning to his partner. "Hey Ma-Sephiroth! Why aren't you dancing? We're meant to be rehearsing!"

The duck named Sephiroth did not answer, because ducks cannot speak yet, nor can they yet follow dance routines. The tall man was visibly exasperated, shaking his head (and his hair) in a motion that reflected his negative emotions. "How are we going to win the Battle of the Dance if you won't practice your moves?"

Before the duck had a chance to not answer the question, the sound of a key in the lock signalled the return of the rightful owner of the house. The door opened lazily as a smiling man with a face like a handsome stallion entered. His friendly smile turned into a perfectly-shocked O as he saw the scene in front of him.

"Kramer, what the heck are you doin'?!" The man, famed comedian Jerry Seinfeld, screamed rhetorically. The tall man answered anyway.

"Jerry, c'mon!" the man named Kramer pleaded, "The finals are tomorrow and you know Sephiroth and I don't have enough room to practice in my apartment! C'mon, Jerry, I'm beggin' ya!"

"I told you, no means no!" Jerry remained steadfast, "You know my friend Peter Murphy is in town touring with his band Bauhaus, and I told him he could stay the night here. What am I supposed to say if he comes here to find a naked man and a duck dancing in his bedroom?"

"Jerry, we're all friends here. The human body is nothing to be ashamed of."

"Oh for the love of Oscar Meyer, take that duck and get outta here!" Jerry exclaimed as he raised his arms towards the ceiling, as if ready to be struck by the holy spirit. He was a man who hardly ever raised his voice, so Kramer knew he meant business.

"All right, all right," Kramer conceded, "But the next time you want to use my sausage press, maybe I'll be busy with my friend Newman." And with that threat, Kramer picked up Sephiroth under his arm and exited the apartment. But not before Sephiroth expelled a wet mess of excrement onto the floor. Jerry rolled his eyes in exasperation and went to get a mop.

That night at around 11pm, Jerry arrived back at home, a tired-but-exhilarated Peter Murphy in tow. The two of them were animatedly discussing the events of the night.

"Man, I can't believe you guys played 'Stigmata Martyr'! That's my favorite Bauhaus song!" Jerry said, his smile all teeth.

"Well Jerry, perhaps we played it just for you, in honor of my good friend allowing me to stay in his charming apartment home in beautiful New York City." Peter's stern face, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, quickly flashed a smile before turning to its neutral position. His sunglasses covered his eyes, but Jerry felt the warmth radiating from them like a microwave oven with a crack in the corner of the door. "Say, why don't we slip into something a bit more comfortable?"

Jerry's heart leapt into his throat. "Wh-er-Huh-What do you mean, Peter? I'm quite comfortable in my denim pants and puffy shirt, but if you'd like to go to bed in your pyjamas, I'm happy to leave you to it."

"Well then, that's up to you. But who would I snuggle if I got cold?" Jerry gawked at the proposition. His friend Peter Murphy, lead singer of prestigious goth-rock band Bauhaus, wanted to snuggle with him during bedtime? Sure, Jerry had always been fond of his friend, and Peter was a handsome fella. But snuggling with a man? It was a foreign thought to him.

"Er...Not that there's anything wrong with that, but.." Jerry stammered, but Peter stopped him.

"If that's not wrong, I don't want to be not-right." His buttery English accent crooned the words and Jerry fell to pieces.

"Aw heck! You've won me over; You only live once! Wait right there Pete, and I'll slip into my Tommy Hilfinger Lombardo Boxer-Briefs!" Jerry skipped to the bedroom and stripped down to his skivvies, removing the urine-speckled Hanes of the day and pulling out the trademark boxer-briefs that he employed to win-over Elaine Benes so many moons ago. _Ooh, wait, jeez,_ he thought to himself, _better freshen up first._ He delivered his naked frame to his en-suite bathroom to give himself a "Gentleman's Wash", before slipping the snug undergarments on over his adequately-sized tacklebox.

The stallion-faced comedy man re-entered his living room, a vision in chest-hair, boxer-briefs and black socks pulled calf-high. "Well good evening, America," Peter said, tipping his sunglasses to get a better peek at the fine specimen in front of him. The dark singer removed his black leather jacket to expose his bare chest. He had the beginnings of a beer-gut, but it was charming in its own tubby way. "Come to Pop-Pop, funnyman." Jerry smiled as he strolled over to the couch and sat down next to his friend. He couldn't help but feel things were moving a bit fast, but he liked it all the same. He ran a hand over Peter's soft belly, caressing the layer of flab shielding his breadbasket. Peter touched Jerry's cheek with a calloused hand; a hand that had seen many tours in its day. The two gazed into each others eyes, before kissing slowly but with unbridled passion.

Peter brought his hand down around Jerry's neck, tickling his adam's apple before squeezing it gently. Jerry had never felt such sensations before in his life. Peter squeezed harder, and the blood in his body shot to his genitals. He could feel his pulse in his pants, but he was also finding it hard to breathe. "Whoa," he croaked, "Not that I don't like it, but...could ya...loosen your grip a little?"

Peter's eyes were hidden by his sunglasses, but Jerry couldn't help but feel that his gaze hardened. The singer gritted his teeth in an expression of sadism. "I am the sanity assassin," he said, coldly, "For the glory of the Kremlin."

Jerry was confused, and scared. What was his friend saying, that he was going to kill him? Was he now destined to die here, in his own apartment, in his favorite underwear? How could this have happened? His consciousness began to fade before he could ask himself any more questions. He closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

BAM!

As if by divine intervention, the door to Jerry's apartment flew open with a mighty kick. "Freeze, Snatcher scum!"

BZOOM!

In an instant, Peter's grip loosened as his head exploded, leaving a mass of smoking circuits and metal where his beautiful face once was. Jerry opened his eyes to see an unfamiliar man in his house. He wore a brown trenchcoat and had slicked-back hair. In his hand was a smoking gun with a futuristic design. "You OK, pal?" The man asked, as he stepped into the room.

Jerry was flabbergasted. His friend was a killer robot, and just as Jerry learned this in the worst way possible, this unfamiliar man dispatched him and saved the day. "What on earth is going on here? Who are you?"

The man smiled at the underwear-clad comedian. "Gillian Seed, JUNKER. You were almost the latest victim of the Snatcher epidemic. If I hadn't have been here, I hate to think what could've happened."

"Snatcher? Junker? What on earth is that? What you're saying isn't making sense!" Jerry put his head in his hands, lamenting how badly his first bi-curious experience had just gone.

"Snatchers," Gillian replied, "They're bioroids who steal the identities of those they kill, and replace them in society. We JUNKERs are the task force set up to stop them. I don't know when your friend was turned, but it looks like somebody was counting on using your comedy for nefarious purposes, my friend."

"What? Why me?" Jerry asked, dumbfounded.

"Hey, don't sell yourself short," Gillian winked, "Your routines are quite daring and influential. Jerry Seinfeld, airplane peanuts, naked with a belt? Nobody else reaches the hearts and minds of the public quite like you. I'm just thankful you're on the side of good. And not to mention, you're quite handsome if I do say so myself."

Jerry lifted his head up from his hands, his face stained with tears. "You...you mean that?"

"Of course I do. You're Jerry Seinfeld."

Jerry smiled and sniffed, snot retreating from his nostril back into his nasal cavity. He swallowed, the salty goop sliding down his throat into his stomach. "I'm just so confused, Mr. Seed. My friend of many years, Peter Murphy of Bauhaus, tries to seduce me, then kill me, then you come in and tell me he was a body-snatching robot. I just...I don't want to be alone tonight." 

"I understand how you feel. How about I keep you company tonight? There there, rest your head on my shoulder."

"Okay," Jerry sniffed, "That feels nice." As he rested his head on Gillian's trenchcoated-frame and closed his eyes, the sound of footsteps jarred him awake. He opened his eyes to find his parents standing in the open doorway, mouths agape.

"Jerry! What the hell are you doing!" Mort Seinfeld screamed, looking at his scantly-clad son resting his head on an unfamiliar man holding a smoking firearm.

"Not that there's anything wrong with it, but...Jerry!" shouted his mother Helen, "Jerry, why didn't you tell us?!"

"Oh no!" Jerry responded in fright, before leaping up and running to the bedroom to clothe himself. Gillian looked at the two Seinfeld seniors, before shrugging his shoulders as if to say "Hey, what can I do about it?" The sound of a playful slap bass echoed through the apartment, as everybody continued to look at each other in abject confusion.

The End…?


End file.
